


God yes

by Spoopy_Moose



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A LOT of Angst, A LOT of Character Death, Angst, Character Death, Gen, I suck at taging, John Angst, based off pintrest pin, john kills sherlock, johnlock if you squint, like really really hard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-08
Updated: 2017-12-08
Packaged: 2019-02-12 02:05:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12948960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spoopy_Moose/pseuds/Spoopy_Moose
Summary: "'God yes.' John whispered, a single gunshot can be heard throughout the facility that night."Based off a post on Pinterest.





	God yes

**Author's Note:**

> This is in no way ties into the series, just based off a post on Pinterest. I'm sorry for the major character deaths, NOT! Anyway, this is my first fic on Ao3, so constructive feedback is always welcome.

“He’s dead.” They kept telling him, “You shot him through the head, remember?”

  
No, John doesn’t remember, Sherlock is his best friend, it doesn’t make sense, he must be alive. Yes, that’s it, he must be hiding somewhere, waiting for the right moment to surprise him.

  
That is the little comfort he gives to himself while sitting in this padded room, “Where is him?” He would ask his nurses when they came in, “Where is my best friend?”

  
“He’s dead.” They would tell him with a sad little smile, “You shot him, don’t you remember?”

  
“No.” He would mutter shaking his head, “no, that mustn’t be true, you’re hiding him.”

  
He kept hoping until the day one of the nurses came in, he had a computer in his hands, he sat him down and opened a video.  
it was there, he shot him, he really shot him. John doesn’t remember much after seeing the video, they told him afterwards that he had attempted suicide and refused to eat for ten days straight.

  
So in the cell, he sat, with little comfort, mourning his dead friend. Mycroft would come and visit sometimes; he brought him things of Sherlock’s, the deerstalker that he hated so much, the headphones on the bull’s head John never understood and the Belstaff. Mrs Hudson visit sometimes too, she would always bring scones, those scones that Sherlock used to love so much, topped with his favourite jam. Molly and Lestrade would come too, even Anderson and Sally, whom Sherlock hated. They would tell him about everything that is happening in the outside world, even bringing occasional newspapers.

  
But the visits grew shorter and shorter, the days grew longer and longer. He had a trial, which he didn’t remember, they told him afterwards that he was sentenced to life in a cell.

  
He was moved to another high-security prison somewhere in the middle of nowhere, packed with the deerstalker, the pair of headphones and Sherlock’s Belstaff. Lestrade would come and visit every now and then, smiling and telling him the latest news in the criminal world, John smiled sometimes, although it was always a hollow one, a dead one. He would laugh too, one without emotion, so much more different from the warm, happy laughter that used to run through his body.

  
More time passed and the dirty blond hair on John turned an unpleasant shade of grey, he’s still in the cell. His muscles sagged and turned into fat from the lack of exercise. One day, Mycroft came in, and took him out for the first time in years, he saw the sun, and oh god, the grass, he almost forgot what green looked like. They drove and drove until at last they stopped at a cemetery in the middle of London, he took John in, there was a group of people there, a coffin amid it. The pictures depicted a young pretty woman, the headstone read “Martha Hudson”.

  
The years passed, John still in there, but the Mycroft took him to the cemetery more and more, once for Lestrade’s funeral, once to pay respect to all his friends and then the last time, it was no longer Mycroft who picked him up, it was Anthea, her eyes puffed and red, looking like she’s been crying. She took him into the cemetery and a grave was open next to Sherlock’s, he immediately knew who it was, it was a small funeral, only some of Mycroft’s closest “goldfishes” were there. Most of them looked at John with disdain, he didn’t care.

  
There had been no more after that, John stayed in his cell, only accompanied by the deerstalker, the pair of headphones and Sherlock’s Belstaff, withering away. He doesn’t get out of bed nowadays, he didn’t need to. A doctor came in every week, they told him that he was dying, John didn’t care, he was going to see Sherlock again.

  
One night, a box came for him, a gun loaded with a single bullet was in it, John knew what it was for, even without the note underneath it that read: _Do you want to see some more?_

 

John smiled, picked the gun up and clicked the safety off, _finally_ , he thought.

  
“God yes.” He whispered, a single gunshot can be heard throughout the facility that night.


End file.
